Hallucinating For a Cause
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: Although hardly a novel contribution to science, Sherlock felt he deserved a pat on the back for his current work on confirming the theory that staying awake for four days is an excellent way to invite all manner of inventive hallucinations. Johnlockish oneshot, post-RF


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

Although it was hardly a novel contribution to science, Sherlock felt he deserved a pat on the back for his current work on confirming the theory that not sleeping for four days was an excellent way to invite all manner of inventive hallucinations.

Not that this was intentional— the minor contribution to science, that is, not the sleep deprivation, which was entirely intentional. He really wasn't interested in this branch of research. Instead, he was on a case, and it was the kind of case that benefited from this particular (delirious?) state of mind, so achieve this particular state of mind, he had. At times, he found hallucinating to be quite useful in finding the solution to an unorthodox case. As transcendent as Sherlock's mind may be, there were some scenarios that required him to think with fewer boundaries than even _he_ had.

It had all been going quite well until a rather elaborately beautiful and oversized menorah had taken up residence on the mantle next to the skull and made him lose his train of thought. Now, he was having trouble picking up the trail again which was, quite frankly, embarrassing. As the world's only consulting detective, he felt like he might be expected to be able to track thoughts in his own _mind_.

So, yes, he may not exactly remember what the case was, anymore— the menorah's candles all produced different color flames and occasionally one morphed an eyeball that blinked at him and it was distracting like one wouldn't _believe_— but he was fairly confident that he'd get back to it.

Sherlock glared at the slowly lightening sky, or at least what he could see of it from the sofa through the window of the flat. He had now officially been awake for 94 hours. If he was on a case, his rule of thumb was 72 hours. Functionality decreased quite a bit after three days of being awake. If he was on a case that would benefit from hallucinating a bit, not that there were many of them, he pushed it back to 94, because at that point a bit of dysfunctionality was good. Now he was at this personally-set limit, but he still hadn't solved the case, and he couldn't even remember what he was _supposed_ to be thinking about. This was not good.

He was walking a fine line, now, he knew. Just because his rule was four days didn't mean he'd never stayed awake longer (although generally that had involved cocaine and hadn't involved much coherency to speak of), and he knew what could happen. The longer he stayed up, the worse it was likely to get. Sure, it was menorahs now, but he had a rather active imagination with years of violent crime scenes stored away and some of the things his subconscious came up with when _really _strained would make a lesser man soil himself.

Luckily, Sherlock wasn't a lesser man. By definition. He couldn't be less than himself. Nor could he be more than himself, actually, but that was getting dangerously close to philosophy and he was unwilling to allow Mycroft gratification on his theory that Sherlock was inclined toward that 'science.'

_Stay focused, _he ordered himself. _Figure out what you're supposed to be thinking about._

It was 5:26 in the morning, now, and he was sitting on the sofa, picking at a mole on his arm and he was, instead of thinking about the case, trying to decide if Edgar Allan Poe, who had arrived abruptly but politely and was currently sitting in John's chair, was actually there or not. John would be up and about, soon, army-precise and always, always awake at 5:00 and downstairs by 5:30 sharp, going directly to the teapot. Sherlock knew he would be startled to see him here, because usually Sherlock haunted his own bedroom around this time, whether asleep or awake. He would also probably be fairly startled to see Edgar Allan Poe, especially sitting in his chair like he was. Wasn't Mr. Poe supposed to be writing at the moment? That was the problem with this, right?

Sherlock rubbed viscously at his temples. No, no, _stupid_! The problem was obviously that the poet was supposed to be in _America_, not in England.

At 5:30 on the dot, Sherlock heard John's steady footsteps on the stairs that led to and from his room, the way they always sounded in the morning: sturdy and far more alert than they should be at such a godforsaken hour and altogether very John.

Not wanting to startle his flatmate as he approached the foot of the stairs, Sherlock went very, very still. He couldn't, however, stop his fingers from picking at his mole. He tried to keep the jerky motion inconspicuous.

As always, John went straight to the kettle and put it on, movements habitual and perfectly smooth, streamlined. Sherlock thought about how much he'd like a cup of tea, but he didn't say anything, still not wanting to spook his only friend in the world.

His efforts were waylaid, however, by the fact that John wasn't as unobservant as Sherlock often gave him credit for, and when the doctor turned around he nearly dropped the teacup he was retrieving from the cupboard.

"Oh! Scared me. Morning."

John was rarely communicative before his first cup of tea. Except under duress, complete sentences were simply not an option.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock, who could form complete sentences under torture, the influence of any known intoxicant, or, evidently, after a 94 hour vigil, replied absently.

John apparently had some kind of Geiger counter that he had modified to detect Sherlock's moods (Sherlock suspected that Edgar Allan Poe had helped him with this) because he didn't even need to get a closer look at him before he frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"No, something's off. What is it?"

"Why do you think that?"

"First?" John raised his eyebrows, implying that he was holding up a finger. "Because you're never downstairs at this time of the morning. And second," another twitch of the eyebrows, "because that's one of the most dazed expressions I've ever seen on your face. And I've seen you drugged, remember."

Sherlock huffed. "It's my flat, too. I can be downstairs if I like. And I appear dazed because I do not understand how you came into possession of a Geiger counter at this time of day."

John blinked. "Sherlock?"

"_Must_ you keep calling my name?"

"I haven't said it yet today," John protested.

Sherlock waved that away impatiently. "Oh, just in _general_."

"You're sitting on the sofa," John suddenly realized.

"Yes. I do that occasionally." Sherlock did 'dripping with sarcasm' better than anyone else in England. Possibly in all of Europe.

"No, I mean, you're _sitting_ on it. Like a normal person."

"I felt like it would be impolite to _sulk_ on it, considering the esteem of our current houseguest."

Giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt (it warmed Sherlock's heart, really, it did), John cast around for this houseguest, seeing nothing. To his credit, he really did look very hard.

"Are you... high?"

"Of course not," Sherlock huffed. "I've been clean for years. Why would I suddenly give that all up for no apparent reason?"

"In my experience, you do a lot of things for no apparent reason."

"Never. Just because my reasons aren't apparent to _you_ does not mean they aren't apparent or don't exist."

"Well, your cheerful demeanor is intact," John sighed, going back to the kettle, which was now whistling. He poured himself a cup, which steamed merrily, and pointedly did not pour one for Sherlock.

_Punishment_, Sherlock deduced. Although for what, he wasn't entirely sure.

He could tell, though, that John was worried. As soon as he had his tea in hand, he was back in front of Sherlock, sitting on the coffee table.

"Did you sleep last night?" he asked seriously, trying to catch Sherlock's eye.

"No," the detective replied lightly.

John frowned, evidently doing some mental math. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but that makes four days, doesn't it?"

"It does, yes," Sherlock said dismissively. "Now if you'll excuse me, John, I'm thinking."

"Sherlock."

"Go away."

"No, really, you're taking this a bit far."

"Go away. I want to ask Mr. Poe how he helped you modify your Geiger counter."

John stared.

"And when you go, please remove that menorah. I don't like the way it's looking at me."

John's voice was firm. "Sherlock, bed. Now."

"No."

"You're hallucinating. _Hopefully_ from lack of sleep."

"Yes I know that, John," Sherlock snapped. "Thank you for pointing out the obvious. It's for a case."

"You're hallucinating for a case?"

"Yes, _I am hallucinating for a case_!"

"And I thought you were cranky after being awake for _forty-eight_ hours."

"Shut up."

"You know, when we met, you promised me that there were times you don't talk for days. I have yet to actually see that."

"Shut up."

"Was it just a ploy to get me to move in with you?"

"Shut up."

"Because I would have anyway, and I'd rather not have done it under false pretenses—"

"Do you actually understand the meaning of the phrase 'shut up' or do I have to be a little less delicate?"

Fighting a grin that Sherlock was not too addled to hear in his voice, John said, "I'm going to annoy you into going to bed."

"You won't succeed."

"Why? Because you have such a high tolerance for annoyance?"

"Yes."

"Alright, then. I'm going to call Anderson. Invite him over for tea. Maybe learn his first name."

"Don't you dare."

"I'm gonna do it. See? I'm getting out my phone..."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and snatched it away from John before he could even pretend to dial. He was fairly sure it was a bluff (John didn't like Anderson much more than Sherlock did after all) but it wasn't worth the risk, just in case. He tossed it underhand to Edgar Allan Poe, who simply ignored it as it whizzed by his head.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, scandalized. "Why did you just chuck my mobile across the room?"

Irritably, Sherlock replied, "Don't blame me. Mr. Poe is the one who failed to catch it."

"Yep. Okay." John nodded sharply. "Bed, now."

"No. I've almost remembered what I'm supposed to be thinking about."

"On your feet."

One could say many things about John, but no one would dare to suggest that he'd made captain for no reason. Before Sherlock was even aware of what he was doing, his body had responded to the tone which left no room for argument, and he stood.

"Good."

John gripped Sherlock's shoulders and turned him around. "Go to bed." With just the right amount of pressure, he guided the addled detective across the room and up the stairs and then Sherlock felt his back meeting a bed.

"Sleep," John ordered, and Sherlock felt his body relax in response to it.

"All right, John."

"Really?"

"Mm."

"Oh. Well good." He sounded surprised, which Sherlock made a mental note to resent later.

For now, though, the softness of the pillow— he was in John's bed!— was luring him in, the cocoon of the sheets irresistible as John tucked them around him.

The accompanying scent of him, John, the only thing Sherlock could smell, better than being held.

The warmth of John's lips as he parted Sherlock's hair and placed a soft kiss on the cool skin of his forehead, better than _air_.

* * *

Fourteen hours later, Sherlock opened his eyes. For a long moment he stared at the ceiling, cracked and peeling and moldy in that one corner he tried to not breathe near, and couldn't help but sigh as his mind whirred to life, much clearer than it had been before he'd finally slept.

Something had seemed urgent, the day before. He'd stayed up for 94 hours for some reason, wanting to hallucinate, but why? It couldn't be a case: he was at a dead end after two and a half endless years, and anyway Moriarty's men weren't creative enough to require him to hallucinate to think of the answer. So why had he done it? Had he taken on some other case in the downtime, even though that would keep him from going home?

He curled upward into a seated position and brought his knees to his chest to set his chin on them, yawning and rubbing sand from his eyes. He blinked hard a few times and looked to his right at what wasn't next to him on the threadbare mattress on the floor.

_Ah, that's right, _Sherlock finally remembered, burying his nose deeper into his knees. He let out a long, exhausted breath. _I was trying to remember John's face._


End file.
